Seasons in the Underground
by Ysolde
Summary: This story is one of great meaning to anyone who was a girl growing up in the 80s (or ever). Wanted more, so writing some. Totally wingin' it. Also trying to make it funny. Updates likely highly irregular, but I'll get there eventually. May shamelessly steal from other universes as feels appropriate.
1. Animus

_Disclaimer: a statement meant to cover one's ass. Labyrinth and all its characters are true but they are not mine in this form. They belong to the Jim Henson Company._

* * *

Through the window, perching on his branch, he sees her. The subjects of their kingdom have celebrated with her, and left, and she has zigzagged back across that grey, increasingly fuzzy line. She sits looking at the mirror, and her body is glowing. Lancelot is no longer hers, though the music box remains. She picks up the lipstick out of habit - then looks at it with abject terror and puts it down again.

You have no power over me, she said. He is immendely proud of her. That's his girl!  
'Girl'?  
No, not anymore. She knows who is in power now. He managed to coax her to the realization of it and this, if nothing else, satisfies him.  
Does this mean he does not regret her departure?  
Not so.  
Though the essences of which he is made are ancient beyond measure, the particularities of his expression are, after all, determined by her, and_ she_ still has much to learn. Hence his frustration. He will always be older than her, and he will always have to wait for her to understand.  
But all in all, time is inessential here, ephemeral. He is here and he always has been here, waiting at every single step. As her call woke him up, the story changed, so that he had always ruled this land. Between the two of them, they made it so.  
Of course his temptation was born of his desire. Of course he plays to win. Of course _he_ desires her.  
If no one else in the world did, he still would. He can't imagine not doing so, and perhaps that is why he takes her rejection this time so stoically.

If Owl was a human, this would be sad, but he is not, and he knows that it is not the ending but the beginning. They danced, and there is no way back. She awoke him. He will not go to sleep again. What he knows and she does not, (at any rate, not yet) is that he does not rule the Labyrinth as much as he_ is_ the Labyrinth. He enjoyed the tapping of her eager feet, he remembers them now and waits.

The girl inside the room keeps staring in the mirror, being neither here nor there (oubliette?). As the days pass it will dawn her, that she did not leave the Labyrinth, and that she never will. And even if he wanted to release her, that is not the way of things. She would have to unlearn what she found out, an impossible thing.

The truth is this:  
Sometimes, an owl is just an owl. Sometimes it is one of the kings of Fae in disguise.  
Sometimes, it is both and neither. Presently, the owl hears the rustle of a mouse in the undergrowth, and takes off, knowing that change is the only given, knowing he is both of her and not. Lucky owl is true, but not bound by time. He can wait while she walks the long way round.

He is with her. Whatever is true is with her.

* * *

_I'll jot more down as and if it comes to me. I think it may :) Extra points for those who spotted the musical reference in the last line (Artist referred: Eivør)._


	2. Awake

_Disclaimer: a statement meant to cover one's ass. Labyrinth and all its characters are true but they are not mine in this form. They belong to the Jim Henson Company._

* * *

Crash, flutter, bang, against the window. When she comes out she finds only a grey flight feather and hoo, hoo, hoo. She hears the calling, hitting her right below her navel.  
This brings music into being.  
She goes back inside and draws owls. One, two three. The walls are covered with pencilled outlines. She then starts painting in colour. Red is the first colour she uses, a rusty stain like the one she found in her knickers the other day.  
This brings time into being.  
Ludo visits, gnashing up some of the drawings in a misguided attempt to be helpful. Several works are irretrievably lost.  
This brings death into being.  
Sarah stays awake because there is no going back to sleep anymore.  
She stays awake at night, looking at the dark square outlining the outside, the great outside.  
Hoo, hoo, hoo. Owl hears himself. So owl. Sowl. Soul.  
This brings soul into being.

Better to dance like crap than stand around like an idiot.

* * *

_Jotting onwards. Musical handle: 'Stay Awake' by London Grammar._


	3. Facts

_Disclaimer: a statement meant to cover one's ass. Labyrinth and all its characters are true but they are not mine in this form. They belong to the Jim Henson Company.  
__Appropriate m__usical handle: Two. 'the Cynic' with Kashmir (feat. Special guest ;) ), and 'Get Out of My House' with Kate Bush, respectively._

* * *

It is a well-known FACT that, for beings of such ageless experience, craftiness and knowledge, fae can be incredibly thick.  
This proves true especially for the Seelie court, who, without their endless rituals to guide them along might conceivably forget to do anything else but dance. The Unseelie, to whom the Goblin King could be said to be tentatively affiliated, do tend to have slightly better sense, mostly due to the ever present self-interest that permeates anyone of that ilk.  
Jareth was, of course, a bit of an odd one out, in that he was not presently affiliated to either, though the Labyrinth and its creatures also made it questionable whether he could be called a solitary. He had come, once, long ago, from the direction of Autumn, but that was in the past. He didn't know exactly how long – these type of details weren't generally useful to him, and so he considered them unimportant – but certainly, he knew that he had been there, and he also knew that he was not there now. Thus: the past. The Labyrinth was his home.

He generally preferred to think of himself as the center of it; the part which it used for being conscious. Whether it had pre-existed him, and picked him up for this purpose as he came along, or had come into being, stretching out from where he was, was likewise a debatable point. It was quite possible that the actual origins of the arrangement differed from day to day, depending on such variables as the weather, his mood, whether or not any strangers (like just recently) visited, and if so, who those strangers were. As it was, however, it could be ascertained that the Labyrinth _was_, and that he was its King, and king of all its inhabitants. His will stretched through its masonry and grew with its flora, and if anything happened of which knowing was needed, he _knew_.  
Both of the courts left him mostly alone. He was mentioned, in the Queen's foreign policy documents, as The Goblin King (he knew this because he had read all her documents himself, and none had been any the wiser), and he was fine with the assignation of this category. Of course it was so narrow as to be hopelessly inaccurate. But she did like her categories, and he felt there was no reason to alert the Seelie court to the flaws of their thinking. The less the Queen knew of his business, the more she would stay out of it.  
The King of the Unseelie was another matter. But even he had so far been satisfied with sticking to himself. If Jareth ever left the Labyrinth to go elsewhere Underground – and he rarely did – the Unseelie court was generally the place he would visit. But this was not a frequent occurrence. After all, the courtly fae were somewhat too… courtly for his liking. Simply put, they were as stimulating company, and about as intelligent, as wet cardboard. Worse, they weren't even entertaining, which at least could be said in favor of his subjects. They bored him out of his skull. Though one had to hand it to them, they did know how to dress.  
As such, Jareth tended to get his measures taken by the King's tailors, and otherwise minded his own business, mostly undisturbed. He was, if not satisfied, then in possession of a modicum of equilibrium. This had lasted until recently. One might say, without fear of lying, that She had changed it.

Thus, returning to the initially stated fact. Because time is mostly non-essential in the everyday life of a creature of the Underground (such as, say, a Goblin King), sequences of events are rarely subjects of close study. As such, the mechanics of causality may, shall we say, catch even an unaffiliated off guard.  
Jareth had spent more time studying the Above than most of his kind – he was curious of nature, and the perceived foreignness of the place interested him – but he was far from immune to being surprised thusly. Being, for example, used to having to fool the Courts (which was not hard), he had never heard the age-old human adage 'fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me'. In Jareth's experience, fooling someone twice was the usual minimum. He changed his means for the sake of variety only, and because it was something he was extremely good at, in fact it was probably his unusual propensity for changing and _learning stuff_ which had put him where he was today. He was not used to those around him being quicker on the uptake than him. But then, they say teenagers grow incredibly fast. Blink, and you might miss them doing so.

**BBB**

Sarah agreed that she might be called many things. 'A goddamn fool', however, was not among them, or at least wouldn't be if she had any say in the matter. She knew she had escaped only through sheer, dumb luck. Because she'd managed to push onwards and downwards long enough, so the place in which the battle had ended had been almost limbo. So full of change, so potential and open to the reception of meaning that any word uttered here was instantly turned Real. Still, she had not a doubt in her mind that this was far from over.  
For one thing, there was that strange elevator-like feeling in her belly, which seemed intent on assaulting her whenever she thought of the crystal bubble and the da….. no, best not think about it now.  
The moment she had hugged her friends goodbye and closed the door (evicting last the straggling cannonball-goblin which had tried to settle down for nesting in the bottom of her cupboard), she sat down to think the matter over and study her opponent. This, of course, was best done by drawing.  
So Sarah drew Owl People. Later, (after Ludo's visit and the ensuing mess) she dug out her acrylics and started painting them too. Canvas was sturdier than paper. Days passed.  
The realization came to her around a week later - somewhere around the 42nd owl.

Fact the 1st: The reason she had been able to escape was not entirely dumb luck. It was due in no small measure to the fact that, while Jareth was King of the Labyrinth, he had to obey his own laws. Otherwise, he wouldn't be the King. Ergo, the power laid in Knowing The Law. Note to self: make detour around library tomorrow after school. Second note to self: keep in mind that library may be full of misinformation. Case in point: Pixies bite.

Fact the 2nd: In the end He had not mentioned Toby even once during their final exchange. Whatever His threats to Toby, it would seem they had been bluff, or else He'd lost interest along the way. It was reasonable to assume that Toby, at least for the moment, was safe. The question therefore, was what His intent then was. Because for some reason, she did not doubt for a second that she had yet to see the last of Him.

Fact the 3rd: …. What was the _deal_ with that lower back?! It was getting difficult to ignore.  
Sarah put down the paintbrush and rubbed her sides. She closed her eyes, brow furrowed, and thought for a long moment. Then she sighed in resignation and got up, heading out and calling meekly down the stairwell.

"Um… Karen…"

Dad wasn't in, which meant she had to deal with Karen. Somehow, it wasn't as bad of late as it has been before… well. Before.  
Still, Sarah felt self-conscious about it. It was always like they were dancing around the invisible presence of her father, even when he wasn't there. Both of late overly careful about not laying claim to any territory the other might regard as hers.  
Her stepmom downstairs was sitting with a magazine. She looked up inquiringly, face open and slightly apprehensive. No wonder, Sarah thought. If she was honest (and as a rule, she did like to at least try), she had to admit that she hadn't ever given Karen much of a chance.  
"What is it, dear?"

"Do we have any, I don't know, some aspirin or something?"

"Why, do you have a headache?"

She winced and rubbed her back again.

"Naw… it's more like… I dunno, a back ache?"

Pause.

"Is it in your lower back, hon?"

Karen was looking at her in a peculiar sideways fashion, which made her want to will herself invisible. But the ache was really getting quite tense. So she nodded.  
To her surprise, Karen got up briskly and put the magazine away.  
"Sarah, honey…" she sighed, a small exasperated noise, though it didn't seem to be aimed at Sarah herself.  
"How to put this…. Sarah, have your mum discussed this kind of pain with you?"  
Sarahs brow furrowed. She hadn't, in fact, talked to mum a lot since she left. However, Sarah did read books. Lots of them. Of all sorts. She turned over Karen's words a few times in her mind. Then her eyes widened.  
"Wait, just… wait. 2 secs." And she ran out into the bathroom, slammed and locked the door behind, and put her back to it.  
After a few seconds, she calmed down somewhat. It stood to reason, she considered, that this would have happened in the immediate future. In fact, she had fought off Karen's prying, tooth and claw, when the latter had made worried queries about it. She was fifteen, Karen had said. It was more than high time. Some of Sarah's classmates had already long since come to school, making self-important innuendoes amongst themselves. She herself didn't see what the hurry was. She had her books and her things and… well, except recently she'd realized how all that stuff wasn't really as important as it had once seemed.  
She took a deep breath. Then she went to the edge of the bathtub, unbuttoning her trousers. In one swift movement, like removing a band aid, she pulled them down along with her undergarments, sitting on the edge of the tub. She looked. And with that, she acquired certainty.  
She heard movement outside the door. Through the obscured glass, she could glean the shape of her stepmother. Karen's voice was uncharacteristically soft. 'Second drawer to the left, hon'.  
So, she thought, looking at the small red stain. How rare! Entranced, she fumbled for the drawer without looking. This, of course, resulted in it coming undone from the cupboard, its contents spilling out onto the, thankfully newly cleaned, bathroom floor. That sobered her up a bit. How rare indeed, and how not exactly dignified. She searched amongst the available articles, settling in the end on a pretty neutral looking one, the box advertising 'Perfect Fit! With Wings! You Won't Even Know'.  
_Yah,_ she thought. _That's why they have all sorts of slang for it, like being 'on the rag'. It's totally cos you don't know what is going on with your own lady parts._  
But even with her knowledge in theory, she hadn't realized it until Karen had nudged her along. After all, it hadn't happened before, so how would she recognize it? This just went to show, Sarah decided, that knowing stuff and Knowing Stuff (capital letters) were two different things.  
_So now,_ _I am officially on the rag._  
She wondered, then, what bearing this new information possibly had on the problem, the contemplation of which she had been interrupted from. Presently, she decided that she couldn't be sure, and made a mental note of it in her Book. It wasn't a tangible thing, the Book. More like a map of her own memory, a certain shelf in her brain where she put all the stuff labeled 'Possibly Significant'. She'd acquired it at some point while milling about the Labyrinth. It was kind of the opposite of Taking For Granted, and even if Sarah had learned nothing else during her tribulations (which was far from the case), she damn well had become convinced of the merits of Hoggle's advice in that department. Better safe than sorry.  
This was why, upon exiting from the bathroom, and after having spent a surprisingly pleasant half-hour with Karen, during which the latter had offered her a small glass of cherry liquor, and even given her a tender (though somewhat awkward and shy) hug, Sarah came back up the stairs, carrying her favourite umbrella. It was a gorgeous thing, with a hooked, wooden handle and every section a different colour, so as to form a circular rainbow when unfolded – which, however, it presently wasn't. It also (and this was the cause for her present interest) had a formidable and rather pointed top, made of pure steel.  
She checked that the window was locked. Then she drew the curtains, took down the mirror from the makeup table, stuck it in the cupboard and closed it, placed the umbrella very deliberately under her bed, making it easy to locate even in darkness, and went to bed.  
Nothing happened, of course. Not that night, nor the next one. But then, the third night, Toby got an acute middle ear inflammation, and Dad and Karen went to the A&E with him. Hours passed. In the end, she went to bed. She was tired. The whole 'on the rag' business was somewhat draining. Whatever needed to happen would have to go ahead without her, Sarah decided, and fell asleep, after checking that the umbrella was still in its place.

...

Flutter.  
Shuffle, shuffle, bump.  
Sarah was immediately awake, staring into the darkness, straining her ears. The loud pounding of her heart made especially the latter a rather frustrating exercise. If she'd had a volume control for her circulatory system right now, she'd have used it.  
The sound came from the cupboard. Of course it did.  
Shuffle.  
BUMP!  
"Shit."  
_Right,_ she thought.  
It had been an almost soundless, rather dry and self-deprecating exclamation. Clearly, the utterer thought himself without an audience. All the same, she'd recognized_ that_ voice. She'd recognize it anywhere. Trying to make it seem like a turn in her sleep, she changed position, hand edging slowly over her blankets to the edge of the bed, then down towards the weapon stashed underneath it. When she encountered the outline of the trusty handle, she grabbed it hard, then, as silently as she could, she protracted her arm, bringing the umbrella to rest alongside herself.  
The sound of her movements had, however, not gone unnoticed. A deep, looming silence descended on the cupboard. Desperately, she tried to breathe slowly and deeply, so as to feign sleep, but after a few long seconds, which seemed to stretch into infinity, the voice spoke again, golden like honey. Honey with sharp teeth.  
"Sarah."  
She leapt into action at that. Kicking off the blankets and uttering a long AAAAAAGH in the hopes of creating confusion on the part of the cupboard inhabitant, she sprung towards the light switch, hit it and whirled around towards the cupboard, umbrella in hand, holding it in front of her as she'd seen Sir Didymus wield his fleurette (and in this moment, she did feel more like him than she cared to admit, with the added difference that Sir D. was always happily oblivious to the gravity of whatever situation he found himself in, whereas she, most regrettably, was not).  
Merlin, she thought wildly. But it had been raining. The dog slept in the garage. Not that he'd be much good, she realized. He hadn't last time, so why would he now? It seemed that animals liked the Goblin King just fine, damn them all.  
Said Goblin King was presently disembarking the cupboard with a sigh of resignation, the entrance being somewhat, or even _considerably_, less suave than what she'd grown accustomed to from him. There was no Billowing of Cloak, and as for the Flutter of Wings, she suspected that was what she'd heard earlier. There wasn't enough room in a cupboard for an owl to stay in flight. This part of her precautions, at least, had worked.  
"Hold it right there, buster!' she snarled. 'I've got an… an umbrella, and I am not afraid to use it!"  
She waved the steel-tipped accessory in front of her threateningly, desperately hoping that at least _this_ part of what she had read was true, and that he would recoil in horror any moment now.  
He looked at the tip quizzically. Then, to her relief, he gingerly took a step backwards. Instead he slowly started circling her, as if their last meeting had not _ended,_ but merely been interrupted by some kind of irritating aside.  
She moved as he moved, keeping the tip of the umbrella between herself and him at all times. He seemed to respect it.  
"What do you want, Goblin King?" she spat. "I have _not_ invited you. I have not wished Toby away. Get out of my house, right now!"  
The way he looked at her with a fascinated awe was somehow more unsettling to her than the first time she'd stood in front of him in this house (cowering meekly, as she recalled, and for the briefest of moments she couldn't help but feel a sense of pride that at least now she stood prepared and wouldn't back down). Well, at least not unless he really_ really_ got scary, and she had to admit that he was now. He seemed to suck in the spectacle of it all. Her PJ, her flushed and angry face, even the damn umbrella. It made her feel… sort of weak in the knee area, like a newborn kitten.  
"Sarah."  
She flailed, desperately.  
'Thunk.'  
The umbrella had opened.  
She continued to flail, although of course now the aerodynamic and handy properties had gone somewhat out the window. It was, in fact, a bit like trying to use a sailboat as a pencil.  
Jareth had stopped in his tracks. A look of deep patience spread across his face. His voice softened, lowering by several pitches.  
"Sarah…"  
"What?!" (she was _angry_, still angry goddammit, and no way in hell was she going to let him divert her attention from that fact).  
"Sarah…"  
"Shut up! Go away!"  
"Sarah, your umbrella is unfolded."  
She lifted her chin in spite, daring him to elaborate on why this should be a problem. She held the thing in front of her as a shield, trying not to think about exactly how thin the fabric was, trusting to the steel tip.  
"So?"  
He approached slowly, reaching out and snapping a finger against said tip.  
Her face fell, mortified.  
"But… it's made of steel!"  
Jareth was the picture of patience.  
"Yes, Sarah mine. Just steel."  
She exhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut. Cohorts of surprisingly creative swearwords jostled for space on her tongue, pertaining, respectively, to metal alloys which had the indecency to be in possession of the wrong number of electrons, and Goblin Kings who imagined themselves entitled to use the possessive article about her person. In the end, all these highly imaginative words got stuck on the exit, where they huddled, miserably, blocking the way both for themselves and any other coherent utterance that might otherwise have hoped for passage.  
He waited. In fact, while he seemed still amused, and certainly haughty as ever, It was as if he was somehow….not smaller, that was the wrong word. _He _was the same size. It was more like _she_ had become _larger_. The last time they stood together in this house, he'd been so completely and casually in control. He'd hardly cared to keep an eye on where she was. Now, he was alert, watching what she was doing. Keeping track. Not turning his back.  
Feeling less casual, then. She noted it in The Book. Doing so seemed to remove the traffic jam on her palate enough that she regained the capability of speech.  
She settled, initially, for a single word. "The mirror." It was a statement, more than a question.  
"Yes…?"  
"You came through the mirror."  
He considered. Then: "Yes," he once again agreed.  
"Why?" she demanded.  
"Why not?"  
As if he'd read her mind with regards to the less-casual-than-the-first-time-observation, he found her favorite reading spot, the old moth-eaten lounge chair, and Slouched Magnificently™ there, looking around in a peculiar (_Owlish?_ She mused) fashion, seeming to take a particular interest in the paintings.  
She willed herself to be calm. Really, the more she thought about it, it was such an obvious trap.  
_Last month, I wouldn't have even realized that. I would have just spontaneously combusted._

But now she knew.

Keep. Calm.

She took the opportunity to observe her opponent some more (observe, Sarah, not ogle), and it occurred to her how subtly out of his element he looked, at least to some extent. It reminded her of the feeling she'd had when last week Karen and Dad had taken Toby to the Zoo – and dragged her along. She had felt queasy seeing all the locked up animals, and especially the large cats in their enclosure had seemed so deeply, deeply wrong to her, that she'd excused herself and gone away to another part of the zoo.  
On the other hand, with the Goblin King there was always the sense that he knew exactly where he was. And that if it was a wrong place, the place was clearly at fault, and had better accommodate, double time if you please.  
"In truth," he finally said (did he sound just a little forlorn that she hadn't taken the bait? Or was it just her wishful thinking), "this is strictly a matter of business. Cathbad, if you please."  
"Crivens! Get me oot o'dis treach'rous swamp!" The voice was small. Like she imagined a mouse would sound if it talked.  
Her eyebrows rose. Part of her noted with regret that her jaw seemed to have decided that the opposite direction was preferable, but it couldn't be helped. Tumbling out from the pile of clothes in the bottom of her cupboard, and onto the floor, came a tiny creature. Its hair so bright a carrot red that it made her teeth ache, its skin covered in so many blue tattoos that it was, to all intents and purposes, blue. It wore a clan tartan.  
"Dis be the wee bairn?" the tiny person gestured towards her, and Jareth shook his head. Cathbad, if that was his name, squinted skeptically at her. "Aye, she be nae wee anymore dis un'." He brightened, at that: "Rather puts me in mind o' ther big wee hag, friend o' ma clan."  
Jareth threw his head back and laughed at that. Sarah's eyes widened. Cathbad didn't seem to get the joke either. "Ach, keep yer knickers on yer scunner, ah'll bash yer heid in!" he spat, shaking his fist at the King.  
"Cathbad is doing me a favor," offered Jareth, by way of explanation. He nodded at the small man, "He is an independent third party. Some of his relatives currently live under the tiles of the Labyrinth. You may have encountered them. They are not, however, beholden to me, and neither is he."  
Cathbad straightened proudly at that. "Aye!" he exclaimed. " Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna' be fooled again!"  
She was struggling to keep her composure, glad now that she had gone through this kind of thing before. She couldn't imagine how she would have responded to Cathbad before… Before.  
Jareth was obviously enjoying the spectacle of her struggle. He cocked his head and looked at her, a glimpse of his pointed teeth revealing in the process. This was really incredibly unhelpful.  
In the end, her stubbornness won the day. Straightening and lifting her chin, she eyed the Goblin King directly. This exercise briefly threatened to rob her of her breath, but she persisted.  
"State your business, then," she managed, curtly.  
He swung his legs over the armrest and onto the floor, leaning forward and letting his fingers meet, an expression on his face of not so much smugness as that of being honestly intrigued. He didn't avert his gaze from her even once.  
"Cathbad is a man of Law," he stated. "There are certain legal matters between you and I which ought to be clarified."_  
_

* * *

_The under-tile dwellers are clearly Nac MacFeegles. I'm certain of it. Copyright Sir Terry Pratchett of course.  
I decided on following the general fan-consensus that formed around Karen even though I know of that manga in which Sarah's stepmom is called Irene. Firstly, I like the name Karen better, secondly I haven't read the manga and third, what info I gleaned *about* the Irene in the manga does not fit with the stepmother I am writing. Thus: Karen.  
Also got comments questioning whether Sarah isn't a bit late in terms of first periods. And yes, she absolutely is - Howver, d__o bear in mind, people, that while it's true that the majority of girls go a-raggin' around 12 -13 years of age, it can, and does, happen anytime between 8 and 16.  
_This is something that I feel goes well with her character. She is a girl who in certain ways are lightyears head of her peers of age - while in others being quite the late bloomer.  
As for symbolical implications and connections to the whole story itself -well, it's all in the pudding. Would be boring to spell it out, wouldn't it? ;)


	4. Lawyers and other liars

_Usual disclaimers apply. Not mine, copyright Jim Henson etc. etc. etc. Just for leisure and with deepest respect for this world._

* * *

"You're a _lawyer_?" Sarah exclaimed.  
"Indeed, lassie," Cathbad replied, beaming with self-important pride. "Or, as 'twere, an _advocate_. Taught by the Toad. I ken th'lay o' the land, the rules o' the game, the law o' silly and un-silly alike, aboon and ablo', by crap and ruit, by th'sung o' the Ceilidh, by…"  
"Yes, Cathbad, I am sure the lady is most convinced of your credentials." Jareth was acquiring his impatient look.  
Cathbad merely shook his head overbearingly, waving off the Goblin King as one would someone who clearly does not understand the finer points of civilization. This, in Sarah's opinion, was absolutely warranted. All the same, she was secretly relieved about the interruption. She estimated that about a third of what the diminutive barrister had just said made any kind of sense to her. If repeated slowly.  
"Rightee then," Cathbad was already on the move across the floor. As he reached her left leg, he proceeded to acquire himself two good handfuls of fabric out of her PJ, making as if to crawl up. Reflexively, she squealed and kicked out, sending him flying across the room. She watched, horrified, as he hit the wall above her bed, head first, producing a resounding '_bonk'_ that could have been described as 'satisfying'. He slid down the wall like a ragdoll, landing behind the bed.  
She turned, wildly, towards Jareth. The Goblin King seemed unperturbed, save a single raised eyebrow. Evidently, he found the whole thing mildly fascinating, but not the least bit troubling. For a few seconds, there was only dreadful silence.  
"Ach," came the lament from below the bed. "Weemen's kittle cattle!"  
Jareth nodded his agreement: "That they are, my dear Cathbad." He was looking directly back at her, mismatched eyes aglint. "And how."  
Sarah exhaled in relief at the sign of life – then sent a scowl in the Goblin King's direction, the exact nature of which she liked to imagine as 'withering'. Alas, if he felt any obligation to wither at that moment, he hid it exceedingly well.  
Meanwhile, Cathbad reappeared from under the bed, surprising her by seeming none the worse for wear. Undaunted, he proceeded back to the edge of her trousers, grabbing another hold and planting his (for his size, quite impressively big) foot on her ankle with an attitude as if it had been a stirrup.  
"Steady on, wumman!", and up he went.  
"I would be grateful," said Jareth, "if you would refrain from abusing the counselor. Pictsies are sturdy, but all the same, it behoves a young lady to show restraint."  
Sarah's scowl deepened. But for the sake of Cathbad she kept still, though it was impossible not to feel rather self-conscious. She wasn't used to being climbed. _At least,_ she dryly reasoned, _he is crawling up on the __**outside**_. She regretted that thought almost immediately.  
The Pictsie, as Jareth had called him, was an astonishingly efficient climber. In roughly half a minute, he'd scaled her pajamas and stopped for a breather on her left shoulder.

Then he spoke up again:  
"Give us youse hand up here, good dame?"  
Sarah shrugged – threatening for a moment to throw Cathbad off balance, but he was surprisingly nimble – and reached up her right hand.  
"Left, please."  
Ok, the left hand.  
Cathbad stepped onto it - why he couldn't have asked to be picked up in the first place was anybody's guess - and proceeded to give instructions with regards to where he wanted to be lifted. As it turned out, he was mostly interested in her nose, as Sarah found out when he unrolled a measure of string, with which he proceeded to measure its dimensions. He only stopped briefly to rebuke her involuntary grimacing ("I'll 'ave no cheatin' oot o'youse, young laady!").  
The nose, finally, done, Cathbad proceeded to measure her face in more or less every conceivable way. The length of each eyebrow, the distance between them, the breadth of her mouth and countless others. The last one he did was ear to ear, a measure which meant that she ended up with a Pictsie practically stuck to her face. And he didn't exactly smell like roses.  
Jareth, meanwhile, seemed to be having quite the riot. She eyed him sourly when the situation permitted – which meant whenever her line of sight was not obstructed by string, or Pictsie, or both. This happened far less frequently than she found ideal.  
"Tha's a good lass!" Cathbad reassured her. "Almost done noo, jes' one maw' thing…."  
A glint of metal, and she yelped as the Pictsie brandished something resembling most of all a small roasting needle, unceremoniously jabbing the tip of her index finger with it.  
"Why you little…"  
"Ach," he said soothingly, "No reason to do the waily-wailies, 'tis but a sample."  
And with that, he unceremoniously jumped off her hand and landed on the floor running. Stopping and turning, he sampled the collected blood, licking it off his knife. Smacking his lips critically, he remained lost in deep thought for a moment. Then:

"Aye," he said. "I ken we 'ave a verdict."  
"Yes?" The King inclined his head, expectantly.  
"The lady's nae longer a bairn," concluded Cathbad, "so cannae be _stolen_ as such, mind. She did, however, ger 'erself a good bite oot o'tha peachy."  
_No,_ Sarah's brain exploded. _You are not going there. You are SO not going there Mr. barrister….  
_He put the bloodied knife under his nose and sniffed again.  
"Indeed, an' a fine boquet it is…  
_Shut up, shut up, shut UP…_.  
"…the peachy's in yon maiden's blood, or ye mae call me a big daftie."  
Sarah silently did so.  
"Thankyou, Cathbad."  
To her surprise, the Goblin King didn't look smug, like she had imagined he would. Rather, his expression was curiously unreadable, as if he was looking inwards rather than outwards.  
He didn't say what he thought, but she could have a good guess.  
_"You have no power over me." _Except she had eaten in the Underground, and even she knew the sentence accompanied by that. On that, all the stories, all the books, were for some reason in merciless agreement. And still, because of the place they were, it had to be True when she said it. Another paradox. Another riddle without an answer.  
The whole conundrum reminded her of the doors of the always-lying and the always-truthful guard. _Except here, _she mused_, there is no way around it.  
_"But… I did what we agreed on," she attempted weakly, "I got through your Labyrinth. I found Toby within time…." She could hear the pleading in her own voice and stopped short, enraged with herself.  
"Yes." Jareth was merciless. "You agreed. You _agreed_ to the rules. You _agreed_ to play, and then you did so, with fervor, granting power and authority to the Game, every step of the way. _You Agreed to Play._ Honestly, Sarah. Didn't anyone ever explain to you the _cost _of evoking favors of this kind?"  
And he was right of course. No one had. Or rather, some of the books and stories had, but she had chosen only to listen to those who explained things to be the way she _wanted_ them to be. Lovely and pretty and, most especially, Not Real, at least not more real than she _wanted _at any given time.  
Note, once more, to the Book: Pixies bite. Bite. _BITE!  
_"It was a good game."  
There was something unsettling about the way he smiled. How had he got so close?  
"It _is _a good game…"  
It sounded like the purring of a very big cat. She remained frozen, like a deer in headlights, while he circled behind her.  
"…which I certainly find quite entertaining, even enjoyable. If I didn't know any better I would be inclined to say you are enjoying it too…."  
She decided it was as good a time as any to study her feet. _The nail varnish is coming off, I really ought to put on some new… _  
"….aren't you, Sarah?", and with that he was back in front of her again, face slightly lowered so as to be level with hers.  
"Bedad girl, yer' sittin atween the wind and the wau!" Cathbad exclaimed. He really seemed duly impressed.  
"Excuse me?" Sarah said, as politely as she could. She could have cried with gratitude.  
"On the horns, as it were, of a dilemma," Jareth smoothly translated, trying – almost successfully - to hide his annoyance. "And our good counselor most certainly is right, I fear." He didn't look like he feared it all that much.  
"Speaking of whom, blimey, are you _still here _Cathbad?"  
Most of the King's subjects would have quaked with terror. Cathbad however, seemed entirely unaffected.  
"Aye an' ye best be payin' me as agreed or I'll give ye a face full o' dandruff." He butted his head forward by way of illustration.

Jareth eyerolled and produced what looked like a tiny flask. Sinking to rest on one knee, he handed it over to the Pictsie, who turned and eyed it suspisciously.

"An' it's proper Special Sheep Liniment?"

"Yes."

"No hiddlins."

"Nothing of the sort."

"I'll 'ave yer thumb on tha'!" Cathbad spat on his own thumb and reached it upwards. The Goblin King obliged. "And a fool I'd be to get on the wrong side of a lawyer, Cathbad Mac Feegle".  
"Aye," said Cathbad happily, "Or I'll gie ye a sound kickin', ye scuggan! Right then. Offski!"  
And with that, he disappeared.  
Meanwhile, Sarah had had time to retreat and regroup.  
"So you are saying," she said tartly, "that even though I didn't want Toby taken after all, and even though I had to get him back myself… I still owe you for the favor."  
He seemed to be honestly considering the question before answering it. "You could say that yes."

"… according to _your_ rules, of course."  
"According to _our_ rules, Sarah. You yourself helped forge them by heeding them."  
No. That can't be, Sarah thought. That is simply too cruel. And with that, she exploded.  
"Like you gave me any choice!" she cried. "All your sick games! They have a word in school for guys like you. _Needy_, that's what they call them!" Not that Sarah was involved in those conversations, or in any of the kinds events that sparked them - but she had overheard them, and he didn't need to know. Somewhere, the other, more sensible Sarah, was asking her exactly it was so important to Make Him Hurt. She ignored it.  
Jareth's face darkened.  
"So '_it's not fair'_ is it Sarah? And here I thought you were past that."  
Suddenly, he seemed to grow taller, icier, wilder, more dangerous, filling up the entire room. It took all of her willpower not to cower. She noted, with astonishment, the strange sense of exhilaration it brought her. She was stronger now, much stronger. Did he, too, sense it?  
In fact he seemed not to, or if he did, he didn't care. _  
_"Be glad," he growled, "that it is me you are dealing with. The Courts, too, know of you, Sarah. So far, the Queen considers you of no interest. If I were you, I would pray that it stays that way. Beware of Her, Sarah. I shall say it only this one time. Heed me!"  
Uh huh, she wanted to retort, like the Warning Rocks in your Labyrinth, but there was something in his voice which stopped her short. Like the way her mother had sounded once when she had scolded Sarah for going across the road alone at three. Sarah had seen something on the other side, she didn't even remember what, probably a butterfly or a dog or something. There had been a lorry. It had been a very close call.  
Sarah struggled with Sarah, won and lost.  
"Okay." the admission squeezed past her lips, barely audible, and she wasn't even sure why.  
"So, what now? What do you want? Why did you come here?"  
He shrugged. "You called me," he answered, simply.  
"I did not!"  
He looked around the room again. "Your… artistry says otherwise, dear Sarah."  
_Aha, so this, too, is all my fault again is it? This is getting old, Goblin King!_  
She was ready to launch into quite the lengthy protest, when the door downstairs slammed. She turned at the sound.  
"Sarah?"  
It was dad! She turned again, half expecting her visitor to be gone, somehow driven away by the familiar and _so very ordinary _sound of her father's voice.  
But He Was Still There. And so much more terrifying _with_ the presence of her father right below them. The presence that ought to have had the power to drive him away.  
Instead he came even closer, mocking her hope.  
"Open the window, Sarah," he breathed.  
It was… what? A suggestion or a threat? She couldn't make it out. What was he talking about? He didn't need her to open any windows. She knew as much.  
"You didn't answer my question," she demanded. "What happens now?"  
"Do you want your father to find me up here with you?" He smiled with sharp teeth, and suddenly he looked different. Like a human. The kind of person you don't want to come home and find alone, with your daughter, in her room.  
"No."  
"I thought not. _Open… the window_."  
She opened the window.  
The storm of wings made her squeeze her eyes shut. They lashed her cheeks, like a hard caress.  
_Until later, Sarah mine._  
She fell to her knees, and the world was a wind that roared inside a small, ordered space, turning it into chaos.  
She lay in the middle of it all, making herself as small as possible, not daring to move.  
"Sarah?" Her father was outside the door. "Are you awake?"  
"I'm in bed," she lied, groggily (and why did she?). "Is Toby OK?"  
"He will be. Just wanted to let you know we're back. Goodnight Sarah."  
"Good night, dad," and for once she was grateful for her fathers recent reticence to even try to gain access to her room. She remained where she was, sprawled in front of the open window, feeling the cold for a few minutes more, sobering up. Already, she was thinking more clearly again.  
The way he came. He could have gone that way, but he chose, even then, to play a game with her. To show her that firstly, he didn't give a shit about her parents, and secondly, he could _make her do things._  
She was getting furious again. There simply was no end to the nerve of that man. Goblin King. Whatever he was.  
Wait…  
_The way he came!_  
She remembered, then, the straggling guest from three weeks ago. That got her to her feet again. Descending on the cupboard, she dived into the thick of it, rebuking herself under her breath for not hanging up her stuff properly, but especially of late it had somehow become a bigger project. There was simply more of it. And somehow all black.  
Battling the pile, she found the old, romantic loose shirt with the small flowerprint, that used to be her favorite. It lay crumpled in the innermost corner, she hadn't worn it since she… well, Came Back.  
She shook it. Out came the Sphere. It rolled along the bottom of the cupboard and out onto the floor with a small, bell-like 'clinnng'.  
_Gotcha!_  
Gingerly, she picked it up.  
_Through the mirror, huh? Liar, liar, tails on fire. _  
And she was briefly surprised by the casual amusement she felt.

...

He'd been surprised at her bringing up the matter of Toby's abduction. Originally, he had already decided to consider it a squared debt, but if she insisted on bringing it up _herself_… well, far be it from him to protest.  
Likewise, it was frightfully lucky that she had been helpful enough to give him another way out. It could have been potentially difficult otherwise. He'd used the Sphere once, to get there. It was all the risk he was prepared to take with it. The more it stayed off grid, the better.  
He wondered how long it would take her to find it. She would, eventually, of course. After all, Jareth liked them smart.  
Still, he speculated now if it had been wise to leave it with her, all things considered. But done was done, and both she and it would be safe enough there for now. Though he was certain beyond a doubt that she would find it, he was equally certain she couldn't use it. Not this particular one.

He flew until he was sufficiently Elsewhere, then decided to land and take the back way on foot, past the Mudwiggles'. He walked leisurely, longstepped, enjoying the echo of his boots in the hallways, trailing the walls with caressing palms as he went. This was home. Ever-changing, unknowable, and yet so intimately familiar to him. He smiled genuinely as he went, since no one was looking.  
Mr. Mudwiggle, as usually, was to be found on his front porch. At the moment he was busy sweeping it clean, using a small hand-broom which, on account of its size, resembled a somewhat short-handled toothbrush. Mr. Mudwiggle so happened to be a small blue caterpillar - or, as he himself modestly insisted, 'just a worm'.  
" Well, if it isn't 'is Majesty 'imself! 'Ello! Long time since we saw ye 'round these parts, if I may say so."

"Good evening, Herbert."  
"Long journey? Shall I ask the missus to put the kettle on?"

"Not that far, this time. But yes, thankyou, that would be most welcome."

"Phyllis! Put the kettle on, there's a good girl! So, 'ow's the young Queen doing?"  
"Well, I think."  
"Still 'avin' a temper on 'er?"  
"She'll wise up."  
"Ah, I see. All comes to he who waits, eh?"  
Jareth grinned. "Assuming that he is just going to _wait_, yes."

Herbert shook his head, smiling pensively. "Our King was ever a man of action."  
Phyllis served tea. A the Mudwiggles', tea always came with cucumber sandwiches: tiny, diagonally cut, and quite good. They tucked in. Afterwards, Phyllis got out her knitting, settling in her own customary corner on the left side of the front door – or Front Hole, as it were. Herbert, meanwhile, seemed to try to pick up the nerve to say something. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, Herbert?"

"Well…this is terribly embarrassing… yer majesty really mustn't think…"

"You are among my most treasured and loyal subjects, Herbert. Speak your mind and have no fear."

"Well," the worm squirmed a bit - which in his case was both a figurative and a literal occurrence.

"Me an' the missus, we've been followin' orders, of course. We've kept our eyes an' ears open. An'… well…"

"Spill it, Herbert."  
"It's…. awfully silent inside the walls of late."  
Jareth's expression immediately grew serious. "Silent, you say?"  
"Yeah, 'sright. Silent."

"It's _reshaping_, Herbert. I've told ye!" Mrs. Mudwiggle suddenly spoke up, her knitwork abruptly coming to rest on her yellow-white belly.  
Jareth's face snapped in her direction. "Reshaping, Mrs. Mudwiggle?"

"Don't be daft, woman," Herbert protested. "it's _always_ reshaping."  
Phyllis Mudwiggle contemptuously puffed an escaped lock of hair away from her eyes. Unlike her husband, she had orange hair, governed (mostly) by a sensible, wifely scarf. "There's reshaping and there is _reshaping, _Herbert. I wouldn't expect menfolk to understand of course," at this, she shifted her gaze briefly to include the Goblin King, "But mark my words, the Clandestine has been growing wildly recently. It's covering a lot of places, a lot of wall. Who knows what goes on under there."

"Aw, psh," Herbert waved her off, miffed by her intrusion into what he clearly perceived as_ his_ Royal Conversation. "You're always yakking on about the bloody Clandestine. _It's a_ _plant_, Phyllie. A plant!"  
"And what, pray tell, do ye actually _know_ of plants, ye nitwit? Apart from cabbage and cabbage-juice and ye _do_ know how to put _that_ away., I'll give ye that much..."  
Whilst the Mudwiggles bickered, Jareth stood, lost in thought, a gloved hand on his chin and a deep crevasse forming between his eyebrows. Then, suddenly, he kneeled, closing his eyes and putting his ear full against the wall. While he listened, his face smoothed out, as if he was asleep, or at any rate entranced. TIt made him look deceptively gentle.  
Until the e yes snapped open. For a short moment, they were owls eyes, seeing incredibly far. Then they focused and changed into the ones his subjects were used to seeing. Certainly odd, rather than even, but distinctly humanoid.  
The Mudwiggles, surprised, stopped their quarreling short, regarding their King apprehensively.  
"Allright?" Mr. Mudwiggle queried.

Jareth nodded thoughtfully, still only halfway there. "Thankyou very much for your hospitality, Herbert," he said, eyes gazing inwards. Then he inclined his head, nodding at Mrs. Mudwiggle. "Phyllis. Thankyou."

"Oh, anytime, yer majesty, we always have tea at this hour anyhow, it's no bother at all," she beamed.

He smiled strangely. "Good to know, Mrs. Mudwiggle. Good to know." And his gaze changed, nailing both of them to the wall. "Keep listening, both of you."  
"As yer majesty commands," agreed Herbert solemnly. But the King was already gone.

* * *

_I am not entirely satisfied with this chapter, from the pure point of view of writing craftsmanship. Some of it limps a bit along. It has a lot of exposition in it, and I've tried my best to make that entertaining and more show than tell. I may put the editor's eye to it later on, but the basic information brought to light in it should remain the same, and hopefully make more and more sense as we progress. If it turns out not, do let me know.  
~Ysolde  
_


	5. Homeground

_Disclaimer: a statement meant to cover one's ass. Labyrinth and all its characters are true but they are not mine in this form. They belong to the Jim Henson Company.  
_

* * *

_Well, you won't get me with your Belladonna, in the coffee,_  
_And you won't get me with your arsenic, in the pot of tea,_  
_And you won't get me in a hole to rot, with your hemlock_  
_On the rocks._

_Kate Bush – 'Coffee Homeground'_

* * *

The thing about the castle was this:  
It was at the center of the Labyrinth. This meant that ordinarily, it was quite well protected ; some might even say excessively fortified. It also meant that it tended to be teeming with life, at least unless its king was feeling particularly broody. Thus, when Jareth stepped into his throne room, to find it A) abandoned, and B) the throne occupied by someone, he felt he was within his right to be cross.  
He walked up in front of the throne and stood, arms crossed, sighing annoyedly at its usurping occupant. It didn't matter that it was the Queene of the Seelie. This was not the Seelie court, it was _his_ court. There were Rules, chief among which were that no one entered the castle uninvited, and _absolutely no one_ save the king sat (well, lounged) on his throne. Add to that the exacerbation that she had taken the liberty of arriving while he was absent, and you had a breach of etiquette most dire.  
Still, he was intrigued. Primarily because he was not so foolish as to believe she was oblivious. She was, after all, the greatest sucker for etiquette Downside. She was clearly intending to rile him up, that much was clear. The knowledge of this cooled his anger to a vague insult at the very notion that he would be so easily baited. There was, of course, the question of how she had gotten here in the first place. He was not surprised that his subjects hadn't stopped her – they were a cowardly lot , and she was a well-known power to be reckoned with. But the fact that the Labyrinth itself hadn't kept her out, that was vexing, even somewhat worrying - had it not been, of course, that _he_ was the Goblin King and this was his turf, not hers. He smiled crookedly at her.  
"To what do I owe this pleasure, Titania?"  
She waved the name off impatiently. "Please, Jareth, you know how intolerably vulgar I find that Bard and his names."  
Good. An insult traded for an insult. Now they were even. Besides, he was damned if he would be addressing her 'Majesty' in his own throne room. He sighed in mock regret. "And here I thought you were an unrivalled connoisseur of mortal dreams and desires. I guess there is no arguing with taste." He uttered the last phrase slowly, taking his time to turn and, indeed, taste it. Cliché enough, he decided, to keep up her feeling of discomfort. The Seelie, Jareth maintained, hated cliché as only those can do who _are_ wandering clichés. Judging from the short, sharp look of seething anger he received from her before she managed to compose herself, he was hitting home. Still, it was disappointingly quick. She had played this game for millennia. _No spring hare, the Queen.  
_ "You know why I am here, I'm sure," she said dryly.  
"Do tell me all the same." In fact, he had a pretty good idea, yes. "Oh, but before you begin – can I offer you something? Tea, perhaps? A most splendid beverage. My subjects are very partial to it."

The Queen, who drank only wine, eyed him narrowly. "Most gracious of your… Goblin majesty."  
There. Nothing like the rule of hospitality to set the record straight. She meant Goblin as an insult of course. He smiled at her, genuinely amused.  
"Although," she continued, "as I thought we both knew, the matter of the Labyrinth and its independence rests on a few choice agreements between the Seelie court and your good self." She sighed dramatically. "Agreements which I would rather _dearly_ have avoided having to come here to remind you of, Goblin King."  
He'd found some tea service over to the side. Silver, but somewhat dirty, it had likely been left behind recently upon her arrival, as its keeper scurried out of the way. Frankly, how long wasn't that important. He was reasonably sure its contents were tea, at least originally. She huffed, impatiently, as he took his time to pour it meticulously into two, rather dented, bone china cups. "Honestly, do we _have_ to stick to formalities so hard? You know very well that..."

"Oh hush," he beamed, handing her a cup, "Of _course_ we do. After all, as a most wise lady of my acquaintance once said, isn't formality the very _fabric_ that keeps our kind what we are?"

She scowled. Well, he _was_ quoting her words back at her.  
"_Our_ kind, Jareth? But I was told by one Goblin King of _my_ acquaintance, a while ago, that he did not consider himself and the Labyrinth part of the Seelie, and he, quote, 'would be quite grateful if we kept our sticks up our own arses', unquote."  
He grinned.  
"So much more the reason for us to stick to the tenets of civilization in these uncouth surroundings, no?"  
He moved in, placing himself casually on the armrest of the throne, forcing her to give up some space, and proffered the cup again.  
She grimaced, a curiously childish gesture on so regal a countenance, and took it. Jareth dispassionately observed her fight to hide her abject distaste immediately following the first reluctant sip. It weakened her glamour, revealing more clearly the more unsettling aspects of her appearance, such as the fact that her waist was so narrow as to lend an almost waspish look to her figure, her nose really somewhat pointy and her eyes curiously button-like. To the Goblin King, the off-kilter appearance of Seelie and Unseelie alike was the norm - after all, they were kin – but her two dead pebbles always made his skin crawl. He was grateful, mostly, for the vanity which drove her to wear glamour almost perpetually.  
"The girl, Jareth," she spat suddenly.  
Damn her.  
"What girl?" he stubbornly retorted. The fact that he knew, and that she knew that he knew, didn't matter. When dealing with the Queen, words were swordplay.  
"There are rules. Spheres of influence."  
"Indeed?" he mocked. "And where were I when those rules were agreed upon?"

Once again, she brushed aside this protest. That was the problem with her. She never doubted herself or her right to Rule, and rule everything. Not even for a second.  
She sighed, finally getting up from the throne, strolling lazily towards the arched windows overlooking the Goblin City below.  
"Then divisions of fair game, if you will. Oh now don't give me that look," she chided. "The children are yours, as many as you can steal. But she is a _woman_. She is the rightful quarry of my princelings."  
"She became one while she was here," he corrected. "By her own will. She ate what was offered her, and did so out of honest hunger and need."  
"Yes, what kind of soirées is it you keep here, Jareth? I heard certain rumours from the Duchess of Mirrors who was present. She called it, in so many words, 'a most boisterous affair'."  
"Yes, I am sorry for not inviting your good self," he said, and wasn't. "But it was rather impromptu. The lovely Duchess and her retinue happened to be nearby at the time."

"Any gathering of Seelie," she responded curtly, "is a part of the Seelie court. I will not tolerate anyone, not even a Goblin King, to use my court for his own purposes without so much as a by-your-leave."  
"Oh, there were subjects of His Majesty present too. They also happened to be nearby."  
"What?" her voice grew dangerously soft.  
Oh well, might as well tell the truth and see what happened.  
"I am sure the Duchess will tell you all about it. They seemed to have quite the time together, really. I distinctly remember seeing her off in the corner with one of his Majesty's subjects, the Right Honourable Lord…"  
"You dared!"  
The Queen seemed to lose all composure.  
"And this you achieved with the complicity of that little Unseelie runt, my cursed husband's servant!" she hissed. "Do you think me blind, Goblin King? I know full well how that tailor, that…. _Hogsworth_, is tolerated right here at your gates, while you turn a blind eye to his genocide most foul of my smallest maidens!"  
"Indeed, at my gates, Queen. Not inside. I have told you before," he said patiently, "I want no part in whatever quarrel you have with the King." He shrugged, a careless gesture. "I believe it has its origins before even my time."  
The quip on her age – and he was surprised to find that, yea verily, he had indeed meant it as such – was not lost on the Queen.  
She pointed at him in accusation, all spit and rage now. It was really quite embarrassing. "You will be sorry you swore allegiance to the wrong sovereign, you pitiful creature! I will lay you bare in the light of the midday sun…"  
He couldn't help wincing.  
"…and I will tear down your precious Labyrinth, cut out your heart and eat it before your very eyes before they, too, are gouged out! We'll see how His Majesty likes that!"  
He managed to keep his jaw from dropping at the blatant display of paranoia. But only just. He tried, one last time. "Titania. Read my lips. I don't actually _care one whit_ about the Royal quarrel. I want no part of it. I find it absolutely dreary."  
Oops. 'Titania'. For a moment he'd just plain forgotten it.  
The Queen, predictably, was not to be reasoned with.  
"She is not yours!" And she looked around in distaste, then spat on the floor, all pretense of décor now forfeit. "This foul pile of Goblin _filth_ will _not_ call itself a greater kingdom than mine, by the theft of what is my rightful property."  
Oh yes, reign. Reign, she wanted, and most especially those domains which were not within her sovereignty. Her husband, of course, was only marginally better. The difference was, she was the one currently in Jareth's throne room, snubbing him, foregoing all the rules she cared so much about, and he had just about had enough of it.  
"The young mortal is none of your concern," he said icily. "Just as what the King is, or rather _is not _to you does not concern me. I care nothing for others'marriages, not even…" and he cocked his head in derision, "blatantly failed ones. What _does _concern me is the fact that you are in my domain, uninvited and unwanted, taking liberties not within your rights or any agreement heretofore made with _me_, its Sovereign."  
Her eyes had turned full into dead, grey orbs, and her hands clenched into fists. Sharp teeth bared in a hideous grin on her flawless face.  
He threw a short look into his teacup, swirling its contents within.  
"Now," he snarled. "_Leave!" _, before throwing it at the floor before her feet. It shattered, its greenish contents spattering the silks of her dress. A floating sphere took her form, diminished and trapped, but still hideously screeching, out the window.  
Well, thought Jareth, _that_ deteriorated quickly._  
_ He could have sworn she'd have gone for his throat in the next instant. But uncontrolled rage, and earlier ingestion of the same liquid, had checked her otherwise formidable power in the crucial moment, and the Labyrinth, even in its curiously sleepy state, had heard him. Its currents gently whisked the small sphere along, beyond its walls. He hoped it would drop her somewhere muddy.

Right. "You can come out now," he said dryly. And out they came, appearing from nooks, crannies, cupboards and even under the throne itself, curiously subdued and eyeing their regent in barely controlled fear. Even the chicken didn't dare a single cluck.  
He stood, narrow back turned on all of them, looking out the window in the direction to which he had just banished the unwanted intruder, brow furrowed in serious thought. They waited obediently for their cue, and in the end were rewarded when the Goblin King threw back his head and laughed.  
The throne room erupted in cheer.

...

Sarah woke, with a vague memory of dreams full of vines, vegetation teeming with life, like ivy and hops and dank, still air. It was still night, she discovered. Somehow, she was desperate for a gulp og fresh air.  
The dog lay at the foot of her bed. He made a sort of mmmmph noise when she withdrew her legs, but otherwise didn't move. She stumbled out onto the floor, plodded over to the window and peeked out behind the curtains. It was night. Quite spectacularly so. She unhatched and opened it up a bit, for a few breaths. Crisp night air. Stillness. Not a cloud in sight.

"The stars are out tonight, Merlin," she said dreamily, still only half awake. Then turned, confused, towards the dog, as a low, persistent growling issued from him. "What, so you're fine with the Goblin King waltzing in here whenever he wants, but starry skies are the very devil?" she shook her head. "Sheesh, Merl," but still, something made her obligingly close the window again before returning to bed.

For the rest of the night, Ambrosius the Steed kept vigil, facing the window at all times.

* * *

_Yeah, I know. I'll try to keep the chapters coming but nothing gives me writers block like 'have to post a new chapter soon'. So it is what it is. Also, thankyou to my husband for reminding me of the terrible power of Offering People Tea.  
I'd like to not be a 'read and review' prostitute, but let's face it: when you are telling a story online, that is the only contact you have with your audience. And audience response is important for a storyteller. So do write a review, if only to say 'yes? go on please.' (litterally, I'll be satisfied with as much)._

~Yzzie


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